HURT
by jenajasper
Summary: Sam and Dean always do their best to get the job done but, nobody said it would be easy.
1. Chapter 1

He held the cup in his hand. His index finger passed through the handle as the cup sat in his palm secured by his curved fingers. "He cupped his fingers around the cup", he said out loud. He stood perfectly still and listened, as his eyes shifted left to right, scanning the room. He knew he was alone but, his remark seemed so absurd to him, it still caused embarrassment. This must be what stir crazy does to you.

As he slowly made his way to the reading room, he concentrated on keeping his cup holding hand from shaking, a recent and, he hoped, temporary condition that disturbed him. He used his other hand to lightly touch the chair rail, a credenza, the large wooden work table, and the back of a chair as he continued his walk.

He realized that he was actually having a good day when he found that he was using his hand to keep balance out of habit not necessity. He paused as he reached the doorway, pulling in a deep breath. He leaned on the door frame and slowly released that breath in an effort to control the uneasiness in his stomach. He appreciated that the headaches were finally gone and that had helped to revive his appetite but, it was still difficult to eat. He sipped his tea and waited just a few minutes for the feeling to pass.

He gripped the cup with his two hands and slowly sipped. The heat of the drink slid down his throat and he imagined it spreading as it warmed him. He took the last few steps into the room and placed the mug on the small table.

He stood with his back to the nearby chair. He leaned slightly forward and reached behind himself to place his hands on the armrests. Even as he began to bend his knees, he felt the stiffness in his legs and his back was like a rubberband stretched almost to its limit. He believed, he had spent more time in bed over the last couple of days than he had over the last couple of months.

When he could feel the chair supporting him, he released a long slow breath that he was unaware he had been holding. Then he slid his hands along the armrests and leaned back until all of him was cradled in the soft leather.

Again, using his two hands, he lifted the cup to his lips and took another slow sip. Placing the tea back on the table, he reached behind the mug and wrapped his long fingers around the book sitting there.

He had been in a peculiar mood, the night before, when he made this choice. He wasn't unhappy or sad, not really but, this level of physical discomfort and forced inactivity made him especially sullen and irritable.

He opened the book and, remembering the effect it had on him, figured that was probably the reason he had chosen it. He knew he was being adventurous choosing a classic like this but, this was the story he wanted to read. And since dizziness was no longer a problem, he was able to read for longer periods of time before his eyes became uncooperative and the words became blurry.

It was a familiar tale, one he could have, perhaps, written himself from his own experience. He smiled as he began to read :

"On the first Monday of the month of April,1625….." *

In little more than an hour, the book lay open and unattended in his lap as he slept.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

* Alexandre Dumas, " The Three Musketeers "


	2. Chapter 2

He descended the stairs, slowly, every few steps sending a jolt like lightning from the bottom of his foot, through his bones and exploding at his hip joint. There were times when, he was sure, that if not for the skin covering his joints, he would simply fall apart and crumble to the ground. Today was one of those days.

He had been told to stay off his feet but, when it became obvious that he wouldn't comply, he was issued a cane to relieve the stress and admonishments to take as much bedrest as possible. He tried to follow the doctor's orders, as best he could however, he had responsibilities.

With the last step behind him, he paused waiting for, what he believed to be, the rattling of his bones to cease. He called out, not really expecting an answer since he was physically unable to draw in a big enough breath to project his voice more than a few yards.

He placed the results of his errand on the table along with his car keys. He sifted through the bag until he found the half empty bottle of water and prescription pills, tucking the latter in his pocket. And then, he reached back in the bag for his reward, a bag of peanut m&m's, which he shoved into his jacket pocket. Then he lifted the cane, which was hanging on the end of the bannister. He was prepared to use it, as he had been taught, to support his left leg as he walked and took a minute to thank the genius who invented drive-thru shopping.

He turned towards the kitchen since that was where he had left his brother eating his breakfast. It had been encouraging because he was hungry and had asked for real food. Until today, he had practically lived on toast and other inedibles that wouldn't keep a bird alive..

He soon decided that enough time had passed, since he went out, for breakfast to be a memory and was tempted to use his phone as a locator. But instead, he trusted that his best bet would be the library. Each step, regardless of the care he took, jarred him. He put as little weight as possible on his leg and tried to rely on the cane but, even with that, the pain in his hip, made it difficult.

Beads of sweat had begun to collect along his hairline and the back of his neck from the exertion. He could feel a moisture on his palm which made the handle of the cane seem sticky. He attempted a deep breath to relax the tightness in his muscles but, this effort to expand his chest threatened the stitches that held him together at the waist.

He entered the reading room and was about to speak when he realized that his brother was asleep. He pulled one more gulp from the water bottle before placing it on the table alongside the cane. He removed the pill bottle from his shirt pocket and shook two into his palm before slipping the bottle back into his pocket.

He looked down at the open book and smiled as he lifted it and softly pressed it closed. He dog eared the page knowing the reaction and smirked. Was it not his big brother responsibility to be obnoxious? He glanced at the title as he returned the book to the shelf and a small puff of laughter escaped him, followed by a low moan. A thought presented itself that maybe the doctor was right and he would get to that bed rest as soon as he was done here. And he reminded himself to be sure and grab a couple of these happy pills, for his trouble.

He opened his right hand to ensure that the pills were still in place. Then he reached out with his left and lightly ruffled the sleeping man's hair. He saw that the discoloration on the left side of his face had faded into what anyone else might interpret as a shadow. Instinctively, as he ran his fingers through the long hair, he grazed the uneven and damaged scalp measuring the swelling, comparing it to yesterday's touch and he was pleased.

He felt the younger man stir, reacting to the touch and speaking softly, he said "Wake up, D'Artagnan, it's time to take your medicine. "


End file.
